my little baby boy

When Arjun was born in Boston, my mother flew from Chennai with a cassette of Veena Dhanam recordings. She hummed ragas during midnight feedings while I watched, exhausted and awed. Years later, my boy sat beside her, fingers tentatively touching strings. The notes trembled like new life itself. Our Tamil neighbors gathered on the porch, drawn by something ancient yet achingly fresh. That evening, seeing three generations bridged by music, I understood: we carry homelands in our hearts, passing melodies across oceans. Community isn't built; it blooms when we share what makes us whole, rooted yet free.